


Familiarity of Toys

by kasumixkira



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Some Descriptions of Violence, Ur Family feels!!, there is a war going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasumixkira/pseuds/kasumixkira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bifur’s axe wound renders him comatose during the war against Orcs, Bofur and Bombur sit by his bedside and makes toys for him, giving him something familiar in hopes that it will wake their cousin. Bofur + Bombur + Bifur family dynamic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiarity of Toys

**Author's Note:**

> [Hobbit-kink Prompt Fill](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=3888962#t3888962)  
>  And I have no beta, so I apologize for any mistakes I have made (and will correct them as I find them).

The battle had been fierce—a day of bloodshed and weapons clashing—but by the time night fell, the Dwarves named victory their own. They sent those foul Orcs fleeing in terror back to the stolen caverns of Moria, screeching and abandoning their dying kin to axe-stroke and fire. They had been four years at war and even longer without a home to call their own, but they banded together despite the distance separating kin, assailing Orc-holds one by one as they marched south to the East-gate of Moria, where they would reclaim what first belonged to the Dwarves.

Bofur, once a miner but now a warrior, wiped the sweat from his brow while he surveyed the battleground illuminated by bonfires. Hours had passed since their fighting ended, but the Dwarves did not sleep yet; they drank and ate and sang of triumph. Those with strength still left in their arms walked the bloodied field, carrying the bodies of friend to tents to be cared for and honored with burial and those of foes to burn piles. The stench of scorched flesh would be unbearable, but it warded off scavengers. Bofur did not see his cousin among those working in the field, so he turned to survey the camp where his younger brother was safe and assisting the cooks.

He lost sight of Bifur near the start of the day and only caught glimpses of him throughout, but he had not seen his cousin since twilight fell. It worried him, when Bifur would usually already be at Bombur's side with a tankard of mead, lifting his voice in cheer with the others. After living with so little since the fall of Erebor—he had been born of kin from Moria and that home was already lost to them—having only his brother and cousin, Bofur feared losing either of them. Mattock hefted upon his shoulder, the miner limped (an Orc had nicked his calf some time during the battle) towards the cooking fire.

He greeted Bombur, rotund with youth and a love of food, with a hug. He looked well and unhurt. Being one of the younger Dwarves, Bombur was kept in the back ranks and had remained, for the most part, away from danger.

“Have ye seen Bifur?”

Bombur pulled on the short loop of his braided beard distractedly. “Not yet, but he's sure to wander up soon.” He pressed a plate of food into his brother's hands, and they ate together, sharing a quiet moment together. Bombur always kept him and Bifur well-fed, if nothing else, but more than anything, Bofur was glad to be next to his brother at the end of the day.

By the time they finished, most of the Dwarves from the fields had returned, joining in the feasting, but Bifur made no appearance by the fire. Bofur saw the worry in his brother's actions—he tugged on his beard to hide his nerves in the worst situations—despite his earlier words, and he had his own doubts but did not voice them aloud. He flashed a smile, saying, “He'll smell yer cookin' before too long. Now, I'm off to 'ave this looked at.” He indicated his leg, and Bombur nodded, pulling his beard again. Bofur waved him off with a, “It'll be fine,” thrown over his shoulder and left his mattock in his brother's care.

Not many still rested in the medic tents. Even against the sizable Orc-hold they had faced, the injured outnumbered the dead, and those were minor at best. His healer, a seasoned warrior who had enough scars of his own to treat another, cleaned and wrapped Bofur's leg quickly. The miner asked after Bifur, described his dark hair peppered with a bit of silver, the twist of his beard and the beads he wore in it.

The Dwarf before him grimaced. “We found such a Dwarf,” he spoke and motioned for Bofur to follow him to a corner of the tent set off by a bit of cloth tied between two spear shafts.

Bifur was there, lying on a low cot, head wrapped in bandages with something protruding at his hairline. Bofur cried out and dropped to the ground. His cousin, a kind Dwarf who loved children and toy making, but a vicious fighters when threatened, lay pale-skinned, alone for hours while Bofur and Bombur were warm by the fireside. He grabbed Bifur's hand with the whisper of his cousin's name on his lips. Leaning over to peer at red-stained bandages, Bofur felt a hammer slam into his chest at realizing what injured the other: an axehead was notched in his skull.

The medic kept his distance, and he spoke softly, “We thought him dead in the beginning, but he still draws breath.”

With a dry mouth, Bofur asked, “And has he woke?”

“Aye, when the lads found him on the field, nearly buried by the slain; he attacked them. His last moments of the battle were of survival, so it was a natural reaction. His sleep now is one he may not rise from, and if he does, he will be changed, lad, as the axe cannot be removed. Doing so would...”

Whatever words the Dwarf said after, Bofur could not hear it over the sound of his own breath coming in short, hard puffs. The outside world faded, and Bofur drifted like a little boat lost on the sea. His face grew hot and his vision blurred, but he would not let his sorrow fall, not yet.

He forced his tongue to wet his lips. “Bombur... I need—I need my brother... Bombur. He has to know.” The medic excused himself, unnoticed by Bofur, to find the other member of their family and allow them to grieve together. Bofur, resting his head against his cousin's chest, murmured, “Bifur, ye can't leave us.”

\-----

It shamed Bofur to leave the war before Moria could be won in the name of the Dwarves, but he valued his kin over halls of stone. He told the king as much the next day and dipped his head and slunk away feeling like a worm that crawled upon its belly. Together with Bombur, he lashed together a sling made of sapling branches and a bit of leather on which to carry Bifur. The armies continued south to Drimrill Dale while the brothers followed their footsteps north before turning west, taking the High Pass over the Misty Mountains, where they settled in an abandoned hut not far from a town of Men.

Bofur and Bombur worked on making their cousin comfortable by plumping up the only bed with soft grass and moss and some straw they traded from a farmer, and pushing it closer to the hearth to keep him warm. His bandages were changed often, the wound covered with ointments to stave off infection. Some nights, when Bifur's dreams were troubled or sweat covered his brow, either brother sat up next to him and sang lullabies. 

Bombur cooked wholesome stews with vegetables and herbs forage and rabbits hunted, and he propped Bifur in one arm and coaxed him to swallow the broth a spoonful at a time. “To keep him healthy and remind him of home; just like Mum's cookin',” he said afterward, petting the peppered hair and twisting beads into his beard. “Bifur'll come back to us.” He declared it often enough that Bofur believed it to be true.

A month after the battle, Bifur had yet to wake, but the skin around the axe began to scab and no longer needed constant attention, and the night sweats ceased to ail him. The nightmares visited occasionally, but Bofur took it as a positive sign.

On a day that Bombur went to the town to find work and buy what was needed, Bofur stayed at the hut, switching between playing his clarinet—familiar songs that Bifur knew and had played with him—and fixing and cleaning. As the afternoon waned and lunch had been eaten, Bofur found himself sitting on the stool by the bed, a soft chunk of sandstone being warming between his palms. He was a miner; he knew the properties of stone and how to hew it from the earth, but now he contemplated how to create from stone like Bifur used wood. 

Taking chisel in hand, he told Bifur stories and gossip he heard from the town's women and shaved the stone layer by layer. His technique was unrefined, and he nicked his fingers often, not drawing blood but hard enough to pinch the skin. He tried to mimic the movements he watched Bifur make, combining that with what he knew of rock, but the first stone cracked and crumbled in his hands. The second and third turned out the same. The fourth stayed whole, if not a bit lumpy, in the vague image of Bombur, and the next a likeness of himself. Bofur laughed at his first attempted toys and placed them in Bifur's hand anyway. It might have been a trick of the firelight, but it seemed to Bofur that the fingers tightened just a little around the figures.

“Now ye'll always have Bombur and me near, just don't ye go to where we can't follow.” He picked up another stone and absentmindedly chipped away at it. “Bombur would eat himself so large if ye did,” he chuckled dourly. “And I...” Bofur sniffed, breaking from that line of thought, and turned to stoke the fire, gaze intent on the flames. “I remember when Bombur was just a wee thing toddling around, fit perfectly in yer arms, he did, and you found us—Erebor gone, Mum and Da buried, and I was workin' in a Man's town, quarryin' rock, to buy food. I was jealous when ye made him toys; ye were there for him when I couldn't be. I thought he wouldn't know me as his brother, but ye sat me down and said ye'd take care of us. Said I had to grow up too fast, and then ye carved a toy just for me, a badger I think it was.” He smiled brightly then. “I named it Bifur and kept it in me pocket when in the mines. Then I'd come home early because ye were sellin' toys to help support us.”

The carving in Bofur's hands fell to the floor, a pile of sand all that was left of it, but the miner only chuckled to himself as he broke out of the memory. “Ye'll have to teach me to carve wood when ye wake.” 

He picked up another rock, and when Bombur arrived home a couple hours later, he found two stone badgers on the table and Bofur curled up in sleep beside Bifur. He tucked a thin blanket over his brother and went about making supper, giving Bofur another hour of rest before shaking his shoulder. The ate together, talking loudly of their day so Bifur could overhear, singing mead-songs, and being merry. 

Upon noticing what Bifur clutched in his hand, Bombur grinned and teased his brother. “Ye're being generous with yerself, brother—look at how stout ye've carved yer figure. And that beard.” They passed false insults back and forth for a few moments before Bombur clapped his brother on the shoulder. “He'd love them; I think he already does,” he commented upon noticing how tightly Bifur held them, “he just can't tell ye yet.”

After a few more songs, the brothers settled in for an early sleep. Bofur left for town the next morning, taking whatever work he could in either forge or quarry, with a little stone badger tucked in his pocket. Bombur kept the other, tied with a piece of twine to his belt. And when he returned home that night, Bofur found a pudgy little bear, carved from a turnip it looked like, sitting by Bifur's pillow. The brothers chortled at each other, and well into the night, they talked of younger days and carved little toys for Bifur, hoping the familiar would draw him back. 

Toy making became a nightly tradition, and some hundred little animals of stone and root vegetables (some a bit fuzzy and growing) lined the shelves of the hut by the time a month passed. It took another few weeks before Bifur showed signs of change. He lashed out more often when approached or touched, his mind just on the edge of wakefulness, but Bofur and Bombur felt hope at seeing his eyes open, blurry and unfocused as they were. 

After a particularly bad night in which both brothers acquired a few bruises and Bofur an additional split lip while trying to restrain Bifur, who was spouting broken sentences in Khuzdûl, they stirred late the next morning and found their cousin sitting up in bed, munching one of the vegetable animals and peering around the hut. A wide grin crept onto Bofur's face at the clarity in his expression, and he laughed outright with tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, unable to react any other way, when Bifur looked relieved to see him and Bombur. 

 

It took time for Bifur to regain his strength and some days he forgot himself; his toys turned out darker than he intended and he struggled to communicate (having only Iglishmêk and a small inventory of Khuzdûl at his disposal), but Bofur did not care; he was glad to have his family whole again and by his side. 

They never rejoined the war against the Orcs, Bifur too unstable for many years, but they heard news two years later of victory in the name of Thorin Oakenshield, his strength drawing together the Dwarven ranks and leading them in a final strike that decimated Azog the Defiler and the Orcs of Moria. But they also heard news of the deaths it cost. Maybe it gave reason as to why, when the prince called them to war again, they took upon themselves a fight a dragon. Or maybe, after so many years of wandering from town to town and selling toys to keep Bombur's stomach round, Bofur wanted a place to call 'home' again, where he and his brother and his cousin, along with all Dwarf-kind, could thrive and be protected by familiarity and kin.

And through all their days, Bofur kept a stone badger in his pocket, Bombur had the other on his belt, and Bifur carried two figures in a pouch, worn smooth by hands that handled them constantly and fingers that rubbed so he would never forget.


End file.
